
•^ 



Book. ' C /hr f 



Ci}FYRIGHT DEPOSm 



BAYLOR UNIVERSITY PRESS 
Waco, Texas. U.S.A. 



Fugitive Verses 



BY 

Dorothy Scarborough 






Copyright, 1912, by 
Dorothy Scarborough 



©CI.A328547 
^1 



TO Douglass Scarborough McDaniel 

OF Richmond, Virginia 

My Sister.-who has always been 

more than a sister to me. 

this little book 

is lovingly dedicated 



CONTENTS 

Absence 90 

A Prayer .-. 80 

As a Leaf. 97 

A Song in the Night 18 

Ballade 36 

Butterflies in September 103 

Carlota's Mirador 56 

Carroll Chapel and Library 19 

Catalina 70 

Childhood 33 

Drought in Texas 21 

Dynamics 93 

Father Tabb 35 

For Whom We Should Pray 50 

Grief. 27 

In a Field of Buffalo Clover. 92 

In England 42 

In His Own Image 29 

Mitla bv Moonlight 88 

My Land of Dreams 43 

My Mother's Glasses 11 

Only 91 

"Pobrecita" 58 

Quatrain 31 

Quatrain 87 

Quatrain 96 

Reflections 76 

"Sad With the Happiness We Planned" 69 

Shakespeare 30 

Spring in Cameron Park 23 



The Bat 34 

The Baylor Song 65 

The Boon of Endless Quest 67 

TheBorda Garden 73 

The Brazos 14 

The Cottonwood Tree 94 

The Dug-Out 59 

The Fire-Fly 68 

The Gargoyle 17 

The Greatest Gift 48 

The Heaven of Dreams... 77 

The Inner Court 74 

The Limited Express 95 

The Lone Watcher. 44 

The Mesquite Tree 51 

The Messageless 12 

The Old Cathedral Chimes 63 

The Old Church 28 

The Organ Cactus 32 

The Passing of the Prairie 98 

The Power of an Endless Life 39 

The Screech-owl 81 

The Sea Gulls 16 

The Smoke 54 

The Southern Cross 53 

Thk Yellow Jasmine _ 79 

To a Slain Robin 41 

To Evelyn Kyger. 37 

To George Eliot 66 

To Helen Keller. 22 

White Hyacinths 61 



MY MOTHER'S GLASSES 11 

I hold them close with loving hands, 

These glasses worn and old, 
With lenses chipped and beaten bands 

Of quaint, old-fashioned gold. 
The simple sight my heart unmans 

As memories unfold 
Of you, my Mother, who the lands 

Of Heaven now behold! 

As in the care-free childhood's days — 

How I remember so — 
You went your busy household ways, 

As you were wont to go. 
You needed "Mother's eyes" always — 

How could I ever know 
When God's Light shone on you its rays 

Twould leave such dark below? 

I've fancied with what glad surprise 

You wakened suddenly 
To glimpse the realms of Paradise 

And all you longed to see. 
Not with earth's dim, near-sighted eyes. 

But vision clear and free! 
I wonder if from those far skies 

You ever look on me! 

You need no more these aids to sight, 

No sun nor stars to see; 
No tears are in your eyes, but bright 

Is your eternity. 
I would not draw you from the Light 

By which you clearly see, 
But, Mother! since you left 'tis night 

In this dark world for me! 



12 THE MESSAGELESS 

Who has not felt the pathos of the heart 

That longs, all unavailing, to impart 

A living message to an insensate world, — 

Who feels a flaming truth that might be hurled 

Hot from his soul, but lacks the speech 

That could avail his fellow-hearts to reach? 

So, dumb and impotent, 

He walks in banishment 

Amid the thronging multitudes of men. 

Sad beyond human ken. 

Yet greater tragedy 

Walks by us could we see 

Into the hearts of those that throng and press. 

For what if one be messageless ? 

What matters then 

The facile pen 

The words 

Like birds 

That wing their easy flight 

Into the vaporous nothingness of blue 

If from that heavenward height 

There fall not to the one whose eager view 

Quick scans the sky 

A faint yet high. 

Remote 

Yet rapturous note? 



Though you should capture and imprison long J J 

The lark 

In dark 

And sunless crypt and hinder him from song, 

You could not wrest from out that vivid heart 

Remembrance of the joy that did impart 

Such magic to his throat. 

Though silenced each glad note, 

He would remember still his impulse toward the sky. 

Still know he was the lark, even though he droop 
and die! 

True inward music never can be stilled; 

The heart that once is filled 

With joy 

Of song, or rapt or plaintive sweet, 

Has known a blessing that the fleet. 

Estranging years can never quite destroy. 

But ah! how sad a thing 

The heart that never felt the thrill to soar and sing! 

How valueless 

The wordy vehicles of thought 

When one has naught 

To express! 

How empty is all language save to impart 

Truth from some heart to famishing heart! 

The stammering tongue that trembles sore 

At each half -uttered word may yet say more 

Than one whose speech is marble-pure but marble- 
cold 

And doth no message hold 

Within its polished poverty of thought! 

Ah, how much less than naught! 

How useless is our altar howe'er fine 

If in the secret shrine 

Toward which our prayers aspire 

There burn no flame of rapt but incommunicable 
fire! 



14 THE BRAZOS 

Lazy, loitering, yellow river. 
Slipping past so sluggishly. 

Pray, why are you such a laggard 
On your errand to the sea? 

Know you not that in impatience 
Waits the Gulf of Mexico 

For your tardy news of Texas, — 
Of the orchards all a-row, 

Of the green and golden grain-fields. 
The tall soldier ranks of com, 

Of the meadows where the Bob White 
Whistles in the opal morn? 

From the fenceless western ranges 
Where the cattle wander free. 

From the Llano Estacado 
To the rice-swamps and the sea. 

Past mesquite trees and the cactus 
On you wander slow and calm. 

To the heaven-kissing pine trees. 
The magnolia blooms and palm. 



Past the fleecy fields of cotton 2g 

Where the pickaninnies play 
While the darkies sing and labor 

Till the shadows dusk the day; 

Past the patriarchal forests 

Where the grey-beard moss hangs long, 
Where the mills, incessant turning. 
Keep a dreamy, rhythmic song; 

Past the lowly homes and hamlets. 

Past the sleepless cities' toil, 
Where the wheels of thought go whirling 

In a never-ending moil; 

On you wander, still unhasting 

Yet unresting in your flow, 
While the laving, listless willows 

Trail into your current slow. 

If your waters had but language 

what secrets they could tell! 
Tell me, Brazos, won't you whisper 

If I stoop and listen well? 



16 THE SEA-GULLS 

Seaward the ship fares on. The dimming shore 

Steadily fainter grows and yet more far. 

Each pulsing throb of the vessel's mighty heart 

Bears me the nearer to the land I love 

And have not seen for long. In circling flight 

The graceful gulls, like hovering thoughts of home 

Drift over us. They poise and dip and float, 

Up-borne upon the bodiless air with wings 

That tireless seem, that haste not, neither rest. 

With sinuous curves and slow, aerial ease 

They follow, follow on. The monster ship 

With turgid breath and strenuous-beating heart 

Moves not more surely nor more swift than they 

In their calm, languid grace that effortless 

Bears them along. I watch them hour by hour 

And yet their steadfast patience faileth not. 

Those silver shining pinions never flag 

Nor fold themselves to rest. Those snowy breasts 

Are never cradled on the rocking sea. 

The twilight darkens yet they follow on; 

The stars bloom palely in the evening sky 

And mellow lights cast rainbowed beams along 

The deck and on the waves that leap and fall. 

And yet those phantom forms with musical 

And lonely cries pursue us still. They seem 

Like dim, embodied dreams of constancy, 

Of faith that fails not, love that never tires. 

They mind me of the seeking thoughts of God 

That through the trackless waste of days and years, 

Through calms and storms, when we unconscious are 

Of His dear tendance, and when we, poor fools! — 

Would fain escape His fond administering, 

Forever follow us. Through sunlit days 

Of undimmed joy, through midnight darks of grief. 

Through sin and shame, through victories hard won, 

God's love and care encompass us about 

To guard us and at last to guide us home. 



THE GARGOYLE 17 

High from the crumbling wall he leans. 

The odd, pathetic thing, 
A gargoyle with his carven smile 

Grotesquely menacing. 

I used to smile at sight of him 

But tears are now more near. 
To see that tragi-comic mask 

With strangely human leer. 

He seems to mock humanity 

With impotent disdain. 
As, having seen so much of men. 

Of laughter he is fain. 

And ever in the garish day 

And in the lonely night, 
Tho men pass by regardlessly 

It is the self-same sight. 

When suns shine hot, when rains beat down. 

When winds blow icy chill, 
The gargoyle from his lonely niche 

Forever mocks us still. 

He changes not, he cannot change; 

His fate is fixed in stone; 
And on that mute, distorted face 

The pitying stars look down. 

Why did the sculptor so misuse 

The passive stone, — to trace 
A gargoyle where he might have carved 

An angel's shining face? 

Yet so we fashion our own lives. 

And how asunder far 
The angels that we might have been. 

The gargoyles that we are! 



18 A SONG IN THE NIGHT 

The midnight pall of black hung over all; 

No light shone in the inky, unstarred sky; 
And yet 'twas bright with fancies visional, 

Athrill with dream-enchanted melody, — 
For half-released from slumber's mystic thrall 

I heard the mocking-bird's rapt minstrelsy! 

At first, in tender, pleading, wooing tone 
It voiced all lovers' ecstacy of plaint. 

The little singer in the dark alone 
Poured out his ravished heart without restraint, 

As if to ease his soul by making moan 
In pulsing notes, now full, now sweetly faint. 

But ah! There came an anguished, quivering strain 
Like trembling 'cello swept by hopeless hand. 

It spoke of vanished dreams, of loves all vain, 
Of amaranth and rue for soul's garland. 

It wailed the Never-more, the Might-have-been, 
The Late! — Too-late that piteous hopes remand. 

And then as if to ease the woe which he 
Had all unthinking brought Night's peace to mar 

He cadenced an etherial symphony 
Reechoed from celestial choir afar 

That breathed of hope. And there peeped out to see 
Our troubadour, one single, shimmering star! 



CARROLL CHAPEL AND LIBRARY 19 

To the Memory of F. L. and Sara Carroll 

When I pass by the building beautiful 
That bears your name so greatly loved, there rush 

A troop of memories ineffable 
That touch my spirit with a tender hush. 

I think of your two join^ lives that till 

The even-time walked ever side by side 
In faithful love that through earth's changes still, 

Through toil and time, did steadfastly abide. 

You cared not for the pomp and pageantry 

Of social show nor for the glare of fame; 
You spent your days in helpful ministry 

And left the world a noble, stainless name. 

You gave to Texas children you had taught 
In simple truth and in God's love and fear; 

Immortal, you still live in them and naught 
Can dim the crowns of glory that you wear. 



20 You did not care to hoard your wealth, nor spent 

It lavish on yourselves; what God had given 
You rendered back to Him, and nobly lent 
To others that for which you'd patient striven. 

Your lives were silent prayers that like incense 
Rose up to God, and since you went away 

We still are molded by your influence 
And still your memory cherish day by day. 

Rich gifts of toil and loving sacrifice 
You gave to Baylor through the years, and now 

In pure and simple grandeur there doth rise 
This building that through centuries shall show 

Young men and women wisdom's ways and light 
Them to the ever-lasting Life and Truth. 

inmiortality of glory bright,— 
power unceasing of eternal youth! 

For even when the mordant tooth of time 
Shall bring these milky marbles to decay, 

When brick on brick shall crumble, still sublime 
Your mission shall go on to endless day! 



DROUGHT IN TEXAS 21 

The air was hot and dry, 

Like a brazen bowl the sky. 
The grass was dead and withered just as if a fire had 
passed. 

The baked earth cracked athirst, 

Gaunt, leprous trees accurst. 
In awful accusation lifted barren branches high. 

Like seven-fold furnace blast, 

Each hotter than the last. 
Dust-laden winds came from the south in smothering, si- 
moon blast. 

When lo! a sudden, still 

And breezeless pause came till 
The very air in vivid expectation seemed to wait. 

A lizard's lightning dart 

Electric seemed to start 
The tense, uncertain elements to know their wavering will 

Tall cloud-banks' massy weight 

Piled over till the late. 
Thrice-longed-for, blessed rain-drops came apattering on 
each heart. 



22 TO HELEN KELLER 

Oh, soul that like a wind-harp is athrill 
With trembling music, passion pure and clear, 
And yet, withal, so lowly-sweet and dear, — 
Thou wouldst earth's jarring discords softly still! 
Oh, life like white-starred jasmine flowers that fill 
With heavenly sweetness earth's rank atmosphere, 
Thou seemst to bring far Paradise anear. 
So snow-fragrant thy unselfish will! 
Thou canst not hear the music of thy life 
The while to us it seems divinely sweet! 
Thou dost not understand how incense-rife 
Thy influence, which unknown millions meet 
Thou art shut out from worldly storm and strife 
To hear within the angel pinions beat! 



SPRING IN CAMERON PARK 23 

To Mrs. Flora Cameron and Her Children 

The long, cold winter left our souls achill 
And so we waited humbly for the Spring, 

Our hearts anhungered for the ancient thrill, 
That miracle past all imagining! 

The solace of the cedars' faithful green 
That, steadfast, chid the gray, impoverished boughs 

Of spenthrift trees but sadder made the teen 
That leadened the long days with winter's woes. 

But soft a green all tender, nebulous, 
As half-abashed lest captious eyes should see, 

Pulsed over pallid trees and tremulous 
Gave tokens of earth's age old mystery. 

An answering signal thrilled o'er lawn and slope, 

Adown each deep ravine's inmost recess. 
To bid the wintered heart once more to hope 

And joy in Spring's returning blessedness. 

Soon red-bud boughs with crimson-purple bloom 

Flamed like a conflagration in the wood. 
While wild plum-blossoms' nectarous perfume 

Showed thickets of snow-pure beatitude. 

And as this perfect day I wander through 
These scenes of happy childhood memories. 

On every hand I find a beauty new. 
Some token of fond Nature's glad surprise. 



24 Where listless willows trail their languorous limbs. 

The red-brown Brazos tacitly slips by; 
In yonder orchards, where the distance dims, 
I see an Irised pomp and pageantry. 

The soft, incessant stir of cotton-wood leaves 
Is like the sound of gentle summer rain 

That murmurous drips from low-sloped cottage eaves 
And soothes the sleeper with its mild refrain. 

On sun-lit slopes the lupin's purple blue 
Blooms vast and free. With crests of cloud-tipped 
white 

And flecks of vivid scarlet flaming through, 
The hyacinthine spikes stand tall and bright. 

Blue water-leaf with tender, trailing stars, 
Lights up the bosky hollows where the sun 

Scarce shines, — so frail a rude touch mars 
Their delicate beauty and their grace is gone! 

High on a hill the brilliant claret-cup 
All in a riot of intemperance bright 

Such burning bowls for our carouse lifts up 
As even Circe would have envied quite. 

On a windy knoll the butterflies awing 
Poise to dip deep in the heart o' the wild harebell 

That wafted to and fro with soundless swing 
Chimes out a silvern silence in its swell. 

Beside the road in purple gonfalon 
Waves the Phacelia, — depth on depth of rare. 

Rich color in its folds that catch the sun 
And shimmer in the soft and vibrant air. 



25 

The pink primroses, rathe and sensitive, 

As roseal-tender as a maiden's cheek 
Yet strong through chilling gusts of wind to live, 
Bloom fine yet common-place and bravely meek. 

The vagrant moths and golden-bodied bees 
Find sweets in the verbena's honeyed heart 

And in the nameless yellow flowers one sees 
Beside the wilding violets that upstart 

So eager in the Spring. The dew-berry vines 
With fading flower o' dreams trail here and there 

And grape-vines with the errant bamboo twines 
And waves its pendent tendrils in the air. 

There darts a ruby-throated humming-bird 
Straight to the blue bliss of the lupin field; 

That scarlet flame that the thicket stirred 
Was a tanager while a blue-jay wheeled 

And darted over me. A mourning dove 

Across the river wails her sobbing cry 
While a mocking-bird from a tree above 

Derides her grief and shrilly makes reply. 

Through the lush green grass a chickadee flits; 

(That black-gold flash was an oriole's wing!) 
In a coat of green and gold a vireo sits 

On yonder trembhng twig to blithely sing. 

In rare, rejoicing music far away 

Comes to me sweeter than the palinode 
The sound of happy children at their play 

Beyond the curving of the sun-lit road. 



26 



world of beauty that the loving thought 
Of generous souls has given to be our own 

In fee fore'er — our city's pride — that naught 
Our children's children ever can disown! 

When Waco like a giant just awake 
Shall shake the lethargy of years and leap 

To great, undreamed-of strength and sudden make 
The nations know her, still this gift she'll keep. 

When Babel buildings tower into the skies 
And myriad human midges fret and moil, 

When festering tenements and factories 
Hide aching hearts and ceaseless, half-paid toil. 

This place shall be a haven of blessedness 
Where weary hands may fold themselves awhile, 

Where tired mothers bring their babes to rest, 
And little children learn to play — and smile. 

And looking past these givers and their gift 
Our hearts in yearning, grateful plentitude 

Unspoken prayer of thankfulness uplift 
Unto the Source Divine of all things good. 



GRIEF 

To kiss the clay-old lips we loved the best, 
To see the inexorable coffin lid shut fast, 
To hear the brutal clods fall on the breast 
That sheltered us, — can such griefs ever pass? 

To lie, wide-eyed, to wait the laggard dawn 
While spirit writhes in longing wild, acute, 
To see again a face forever gone, 
To hear, just once, a voice but lately mute; 

To feel how steadfast is the human heart 
That can endure such woe and yet not break; 
To leam to check the acrid tears that start 
And hide beneath a smile a mortal ache, — 

Nay, such griefs pass not, but are sanctified 
By slow and solemn processes of soul. 
As long as life their memories abide. 
Yet not the bitter anguish known of old. 



27 



28 



THE OLD CHURCH 

Forlorn and stark and desolate 

It mutely questions why 
It is abandoned to such fate, — 
To worldly uses dedicate, — 
That which to God was consecrate 

And once held holily! 

Now vaudeville is acted where 

The pulpit stood for long, 
While vulgar picture shows appear 
Above the pool of baptism there; 
Where once was heard the voice of prayer 

Now rings the ribald song! 

Below, where children learned God's word. 

Men traffic now and buy. 
They sell and bargain undeterred. 
With God's name never thought nor heard! 
Christian, is your soul not stirred 

By such enormity? 

think you not the Father grieves 

To see it fallen so low? — 
His house become a den of thieves 
That the Holy Spirit sadly leaves, 
While round it, mornings, noons and eves, 

The lost souls come and go! 

rather raze it to the sod 

Than let it be defaced! 
The temple of the living God, 
Where erst His ministers have stood, 
Where feet of worshippers have trod. 

Should not be so disgraced! 



IN HIS OWN IMAGE 

In Thine own image, Almighty God, 

Thy word says Thou didst shape humanity. 

Didst breathe upon insentient, witless clod 
And dower it with Thine own divinity. 

Yet some men crouch where they should stand erect, 
Or crawl where they should walk upright, and lo! 

Some are defaced with brutish, base defect 
And scramble with the mark o' the beast on brow. 

They have forgot to image Thee! And yet 
No one so low but bears some trace of Thee; 

Thy Godhead, never quite defaced, is set 
Memorial on human frailty. 

And others in the patient, trivial round 
Or in the dizzy glare of earthly fame 

Still keep Thy stature, lofty and sun crowned, 
Still name, though silently. Thy holy name. 

As in the wild white hour of danger late 
Men gave their lives for others, as didst Thou 

And with a prayerful courage faced their fate 
Vicarous, as Thou hadst taught them how, — 

Not for their own loved, cherished ones alone 
Did these men bravely, grandly choose to die. 

But for unlettered peasants, rude, unknown. 
With helpless womanhood their only cry. 

Such deeds uplift our fallen self-respect, 
Show us our God-like stature once again. 

Prove that mankind is nobler than we recked, 
Immortal still, spite of the stoop and stain! 



29 



30 



SHAKESPEARE 

Thou art not dead, Shakespeare!— even though 
The years are many since they shaped for thee 
A tomb beside thine Avon's peaceful flow 
Amid the scenes thou hadst loved tenderly. 
Could Death strike lifeless that so wondrous mind 
Or gravestones hide such genius free and vast? 
Still thou dost live on page, in heart, and find 
What royal reahns of love and state thou hast. 
Immortal, thou didst linger mortal-wise 
Awhile on earth, and with a god-like power 
Gave life to many, — kings of high emprise, 
Wise fools and lovers with a deathless dower. 
E'en called the mighty dead to live again 
To fame eternal by thy simple pen! 



01 

Could I be happy even where *^ 

Heaven's glad hosannas swell, 
If through my sin another soul 

Has stumbled into hell? 



32 



THE ORGAN CACTUS 

Up from the desert desolate and bleak 

That stretches out as far as eye can reach 
In wind-blown, mocking waves that never break 

On any howsoever-distant beach, 
The organ Cactus lifts its columns grand, 

That, linked together, tower toward the sky, 
A vast pipe organ in a lonely land 

Ancient of days ere ever man came nigh! 

Shall mighty touch of hurricane or storm 

Awake majestic chords to life within? 
Or shall the breath of Mexic breezes warm 

Avail the sweeter melodies to win? 
Perhaps in some hushed midnight's holy spell. 

When soft on desert sands the moonbeams lie, 
The hand divine that shaped so wondrous well 

This organ vast will play his symphony! 



CHILDHOOD 33 

Dear are our childhood's memories, — dear 

The unbidden tears that come 
When to our mind there troop unwavering, clear. 
The thoughts of home. 

Gone are those happy seasons,— -gone 

Is childhood's magic spell. 
Gone are the ones that in life's happy mom 
We loved so well. 

Sweet are our lowly home-loves, — sweet 

To feel amid our pain 
That in our Father's home some day we'll meet 
Them all again. 

Gone is our childhood's rapture,— gone 

Its spirit undefiled; 
Yet to His Kingdom we shall come, each one 
A little child! 



34 THE BAT 

The sun has died but still there shines till late 

A yellow, cosmic light; 
It seems the earth and sky do solemn wait 

The coming of the night. 

A solitary bat with soundless wing 

Goes circling overhead; 
My gaze clings to the curious, sombre thing 

With fascinated dread. 

It seems so mournful-lonely, set apart 

From the dear company 
Of joyous birds that every human heart 

Doth cherish tenderly. 

It hath no song nor plumage gay, — even so 

Some homely birds we love 
Just as some dear, familiar face we know 

Doth strangely lovely prove. 

But this wild creature with its gruesome grace 

Pathetically wierd 
Finds nowhere welcome but in every place 

By all is shunned and feared. 

So it avoids the light of garish day 
And waits the kindlier night 

Ere it fares forth to seek in devious way 
Its dim, uncertain flight. 

It even shuns in lonely sensitiveness 

The others of its kind 
And goes its darksome way companionless, 

And desolately blind. 

And yet Omnipotence created this 
Which still a God doth prize. 

And e'en the least and meanest thing of His 
How shall we dare despise? 



FATHER TABB 35 

Stilled is the voice that like a thrush 

Piped such clear strain; 
O'er all the Southland falls a hush 

Of tender pain. 

Though blind, he opened others' eyes 

To visions rare, 
Earth's priest and poet of the skies,— 

His song a prayer! 

The dim harmonics of the soul 

He voiced so well, 
I think he now must converse hold 

With Israfel! 



36 BALLADE 

I was sitting one day half asleep, 
Wishing vain that the sermon would end, 
When around me there swiftly did creep 
A sweet breath such as tropic winds send. 
Now what could such perfumery spend 
As so swiftly my senses o'er-ran? 
And pray how could the sermon contend 
With the scent of a sandal-wood fan? 

In its odors my soul seemed to steep, 

All my wearisome thoughts to suspend. 

And again with the fancy's quick leap 

I was back where the tall palm trees bend, 

China-town's curious mazes to wend, 

With their intricate, labyrinth-plan. 

Where each breath that I drew seemed to blend 

With the scent of a sandal-wood fan. 

There an Orient girl with her deep. 
Subtle glance that enchantment did lend. 
With her eye-lashes languorous sweep 
Over me her charm seemed to extend. 
Ah, my happiness used to depend 
I Long ago, on the lips of Ah Tan, 

Who her coquetry sweet would amend 
With the scent of a sandal-wood fan! 

L'Envoi. 

When I wander to lands yet unkenned. 
Having finished the whole of life's span. 
Will the odors of heaven e'er blend 
With the scent of a sandal wood fan? 



TO EVELYN KYGER 37 

Like a snowy lily 

Opening in the sun, 
Pure so that the breezes 

Scarce dare breathe upon 
That so fragile beauty 

Spirit-like and pale 
(E'en the dew-drops gently 

Touch a thing so frail!) 
Love, thou wert among us 

For a little horn- 
Yet thou left upon us 

Thy love's deathless dower. 

With the lily's beauty 

Thy young life did hold 
All its chaliced sweetness. 

Its rare heart of gold. 
Yet as earth-flowers quickly 

Perish and are fled 
So thy mortal semblance 

Swift evanished. 
In the Father's gardens 

Evermore to bloom 
And to breathe eternal 

Thy soul's rich perfume. 



3S hi^e a strain of music 

Softly echoing 
Seemed thy gentle spirit 

Harmony to bring 
To earth's fretful discords. 

Thy soul paused to hear 
Life's dim, hushed harmonics 

With a reverent ear. 
Love that yearns and listens^ 

Shall't not hear ere long 
In a near-by Heaven 

That up-gathered song? 

Innocent ai^d holy 

Wert thou from thy birth; 
Scarce thou knew that evil 

Walked upou the earth. 
With no fond hopes' shattered 

Disillusionment, 
With thy rapt ideals 

All imstained, unspent. 
Lovely, thou didst leave us 

For a life more fair,-^ 
A lily set to music, 

A caroUed flower qf prayer. 



THE POWER OF AN ENDLESS LIFE 39 

It matters not on what far star 

Of all Thy whirling, golden spheres 
We'll see Thy glories gleam afar. 

Past hmnan hopes and smiles and tears. 

It matters not what strange, new bliss 

Awaits us in that morning land; 
There is more happiness in this 

Than we could ever understand! 

And of whatever worlds there are 

Thou art the Lord, and this we know — 
Thou wilt project afar, afar. 

The life begun in brief below. 

The power of an endless life, 

glorious yet solemn thought! — 
How with omnipotence 'tis rife 

And with immortal presage fraught! — 

That we shall never cease to be 

Though endless aeons pass away, 
But throughout Thy eternity 

Shall be ourselves, as yesterday! 

Ourselves and yet, oh, not the same! 

For time works change even here on earth, 
And by our altering flesh and frame 

We reach a subtle, slow rebirth. 

And is't not so with spirit, too? 

We grow by what we feed upon; 
As we our nobler thoughts renew 

The baser perish and are gone. 



40 Here in this haste-racked life of ours 

We breathless move from task to task, 
Lacking the leisure for our powers 
To gain the stature we would ask. 

But in that other, better land. 

Where Time no more stem lash shall wield, 
Our natures fitly may expand, 

Our souls their early promise yield. 

We shall have space to dream and grow. 
Room for a broader being, — room 

For our dwarfed and starveling hearts to know 
What glorious grace they may assume. 

There shall no weakness blight nor mar 
The spirit's flight, unfettered, free. 

Nor pinions beat against the bar 
Of prisoning mortality. 

We shall be free from sin's wild snare. 
With no dark doubts to hedge us in; 

We shall be pure as angels are, 
Yet with a knowledge born of sin. 

Think! we shall learn all truth that lies 
Hid now beyond our human ken; 

Shall share the wisdom of the skies 
Yet lose not that we had as men. 

Aye, and a nobler service, too. 
Shall give our talents all free scope, 

A deeper love our souls embue, 
A higher joy lead us to hope. 

Daring our own best selves to be. 
Free from the stress of sin's hot strife, 

0, we shall feel through eternity 
The power of an endless life! 



TO A SLAIN ROBIN 41 

All mute on the ground thou liest, 

A piteous, slaughtered thing, 
And yet to heaven upcriest 
Thy wrong, — that man deniest 

Thy right to soar and sing, — 
The song all silenced now and rent the rapturous wing! 

The careless people pass thee 

Indifferently by; 
Nor eyes of pity ask thee 
What hand it was that cast thee 

Aside to bleed and die. 
How harsh the wanton sport, the needless cruelty! 

Ah, Bums should yet be living 

To teach us to be kind. 
For in our selfish striving 
We sin past all forgiving 

So heedless are and blind! 
And if we show no mercy, can we mercy find? 
Next summer will be sadder 

Because one song is stilled 
That would have made earth gladder. 
And one more lyric ladder 

To Heaven is unfullfiUed 
Because one tiny form lies desolate and chilled! 



42 IN ENGLAND 

Is yonder pallid, starveling moon 

The one I used to see 
Make midnight mist-enchanted noon 

On Texas prairies free? 

And are the sweet West winds that toss 
My hair then onward roam 

The ones that lately blew across 
The cotton-fields at home? 

Are these the self-same stars that shed 
Their golden ray on ray 

Athwart the graves of my dear dead 
Five thousand miles away? 



MY LAND OF DREAMS 43 

Oh, sunny land of dreams, my Mexico,— 
Enchantress with a spell, seductive, golden! 
Thy mountains crown^ with eternal snow, 
Thy antique cities with their ruins olden 
Unite the present with the long ago. 
Oh, sunny land of dreams, my Mexico! 
Thy myrtles, rosy-blooming, row on row. 
Thy royal palms uplifted toward far heaven. 
Thy dawns and sunsets with their golden glow. 
Thy skies with angry tempests never riven, — 
Almost too perfect seem for life below, 
Oh, land of heavenly dreams, my Mexico! 

Not till I left thee did I love thee so! 

Thy very name hath potency of healing 

Full many a pang this heart of mine doth know. 

My thoughts like homing birds are ever stealing 

Back to that land where I so long to go. 

Dear land of happy dreams, my Mexico! 



44 THE LONE WATCHER 

To Rufus C. Burleson 

Steadfast and patient, with out-stretching hands. 

Thy bronzed figure stands 

On Baylor's campus here. That antique form 

All bent with age, with years of stress and storm 

Of ceaseless effort and divine unrest 

To manifest 

The verity of thy long-cherished dreams 

Imperishable — meseems 

Doth yet keep watch and ward. 

By day and night doth guard 

This Baylor thou didst love and serve so long! 

The restless throng 

Of hurrying students carelessly pass by 

Sometimes regardlessly, 

Yet oft they turn their young eyes to thy face 

And in that reverent gaze 

Pay homage to thy memory. 

The years roll on, the changing springs unfold 

And on the purple prairies as of old 

The clover blooms. 

In virginal, shy forest glooms 

Spring the wild violets and their sister flowers. 

While subtile showers 

Gleam down athwart the meadows and the hills. 



Each joy that fills 45 

The heart with painful sweetness unexprest, 

Each stir of endless quest 

With happy presage fraught. 

Does it then touch thee not? 

I love to think that thou hast still a share 

(Mayhap past our compare) 

In these our joys 

That voice 

Of happy student thrills thee as of old, 

Even amid the manifold 

Deep raptures of eternity. 

This Texas thou didst love so tenderly, 

Hath it not yet a part 

In thy still-loving heart? 

Hearts do not change; affections remain true 

Though far our bodies wander from the view 

Of those we love. Nor continents divide 

Nor seas that waste and wide 

Stretch cruelly 

Can sunder us if we 

But truly love, even here on earth. 

And is't not so in that new life whose birth 

Is mortal death, 

Whose earliest knowledge is life's latest breath? 

Ah, surely it is so! 

Long years ago 

Far in a distant state 

In high enthusiasm thou didst dedicate 

Thy life to Texas. Well was that fullfilled! 

ThriUed 

With young, ardent hopes and dreams unconquerable, 

High-hearted zeal and courage to foretell 

The unguessed greatness of this young, rude land. 



4S Thou earnest here to stand 

In the fore-front of battle all-heroically 

To live, to love, to labor and to die 

For Texas, for thy God! 

Though rough and lonely oft the path thou trod, 

And sore the loss and strain the years did bring. 

Thou hadst a faith unstaggering. 

Sublime, 

That in some future time 

(Which seemed so laggard to thy longing heart!) 

Thy Baylor, child of mighty sacrifice 

Of tears and passionate prayers that heavenly wise 

Scorned earthly failure, should her destiny attain. 

And not in vain 

Those years 

When despite doubts and fears 

Didst cry, "My heart is fixed. 

Oh God, my heart is fixed!" 

not in vain 

The love of other hero souls that did maintain 

The truth with thee and sent a challenge bold 

In the face of the future. Oft has it been told 

Since then 

On printed page and in the lives of men 

What Baylor's mission has been to the world, — 

A torch of light, a flaming flag unfurled, 

A signal to the cross of Calvary, 

A ministry 

Of self-regardless love. 

Should Baylor ever prove 

Untrue to her high task, how great her shame, 

But not on thee the blame! 



Lone watcher 'neath the solemn stars, <^^ 

Ere daylight nears 

Thy place of vigil surely comes to thee 

A troop of spirits bright and visionary, 

The Baylor dead, 

With faces radiant, unshadowed, — 

Some who on Southern battle-field 

Were slain, some who their lives did yield 

On foreign lands in long-drawn martyrdom to truth; 

Some who in youth 

As some in age, who went 

After a life of quiet service spent 

For others — do they not return 

As home-sick spirits yearn 

For the simple things of home? 

And as the deathless dead in memory come 

To keep with thee 

Thy faithful midnight watch, the company 

Of joyous students solace thee by day. 

These are thy best remembrancers alway. 

Yea, these alone. 

Their lives thy fitting monument, not bronze nor stone 



48 THE GREATEST GIFT 

Of all the myriad blessings that 
God gives us day by day 

To bloom like starry flowerets 
Along life's dusty way, 

I wonder whether this is not 
The greatest of them yet, — 

Just the power to remember 
And the power to forget? 

How tragic could we not recall 
Our golden hours, to live 

Again and yet again the bliss 
Their memory can give! 

The simpler things are precious, too. 
And how they linger long, — 

The sunset sky, the book beloved, 
The look, the word, the song! 



And, ah, our sacred griefs that time 4g 

Can never quite destroy 
But by the alchemy of years 

Doth change to solemn joy, — 

How blest that we forevermore 

May keep them for our own. 
And in the secret shrines of thought 

Commume with them alone! 

But there are many things as well 

That wound and vex and fret, 
And so we count among our boons 

The power to forget. 

And may the Father in His grace 

Hereafter grant us yet 
That we may through eternity 

Remember— and forget! 



50 FOR WHOM WE SHOULD PRAY 

I would be thankful, thinking how great blessings 
Thou hast bestowed, God, upon my way; 

I would be prayerful, knowing well my weakness. 
The sins that do beset me day by day. 

And yet not selfish even in my praying. 
Forgetting others' needs at thought of mine, 

I would be filled with Thine own great compassion, 
Would share thy selfless sympathy divine. 

I would ask blessings for the sick and helpless. 
The young, young children set about with snares, 

And for the old, the lonely, the forsaken. 
The poor, in whose sad eyes gaunt hunger stares. 

I would plead pardon for the weak and erring, — 
Sin-blinded souls that somehow go astray. 

That stagger 'neath a burden past our knowing 
And wildly wonder how they missed the way. 

And yet of all sad souls, to me the saddest 
Are those that never think of Thee nor pray; 

And so for prayerless lives and thankless spirits 
I crave Thy tenderest pity, Lord, today! 



THE MESQUITE TREE 51 

I love the magnolia and palm 

Austere in their virginal pride, 

As they lift themselves, stately and calm, 

Southern hill-slopes or bayous beside. 

The acacia, the myrtle, the bay. 

Are dear with their incense-breath sweet, 

But there's none that I cherish alway 

Like the little gnarled Texas mesquite! 

Of the trees of the North I love each 

Whether ice-clad or tenderiy green, — 

The tall linden, the maple, the beech, 

In their glory of autumn's bright sheen. 

There's a beauty about every one 

That 'twould seem needeth naught to complete. 

And yet strangely I say I love none 

Like the little gnaried Texas mesquite! 

I have stood rapt with awe to behold 
California's famed Redwoods so grand. 
And that tree countless centuries old. 
That great Mexican giant that stands 
As the largest in all of the world. 
Yes, its wonders I often repeat. 
And yet, — is your nose slightly curled? — 
I love best my gnarled Texas mesquite! 



g2 There are trees that in forests grow tall, 

In swamp, or on hill-side, or glade; 
The mesquite knows none other at all 
But afar on the plain gives its shade 
To the place that most needeth a tree! 
And whene'er the fierce sunbeams hot beat 
On the cowboy or coyote, they flee 
To the little gnarled Texas mesquite! 

Oh, its branches are crooked and scarred, 

And its verdure is scanty, I know. 

And from neatly-kept parks 'tis disbarred, 

Ne'ertheless, my heart loveth it so! 

For its leaves are as lacy as ferns. 

And its blossoms like plumes creamy-sweet,- 

And I'll cling, even though the world spurns, 

To my little gnarled Texas mesquite! 



THE SOUTHERN CROSS 53 

Calm is the tropic night; no slightest breeze 

The pois^ stillness of the leafage mars. 

'Tis dark, save for the light of large-eyed stars 

That glimmer through the lace-like Pepper trees. 

The stately palms like soldiers stand at ease; 

The plaintain leaves have furled their bannered bars. 

Night's peace hath healed the wounds of Noon's fierce 

wars 
And to earth's myriad sorrows brought surcease. 

Like figures on an antique goblet's brim, 
Quaint arabesques the smooth-shorn grass emboss. 
The worldless melody of Nature's hymn 
Soothes from my soul its pettiness and dross. 
And lo! above yon cloudlet's silver rim 
There shineth softly clear the Southern Cros$| 



54 THE SMOKE 

By the vessel's rail I love to lean 
And watch the massive smoke-stack high 
That casts a velvet pall between 
The ocean and the sky. 

The heavy, cumulus smoke-heaps 
In inky blackness billow forth 
As where the tempest cloud swift creeps 
Athwart the wintry north. 

But farther on grey banners wave. 
Unfurling proudly, floating higher. 
As to inspire the patriot brave 
To face the battle's fire! 

Yet farther, see! a silver veil 
As for some timid, tender bride. 
Floats in the twilight, shinmiering-pale 
Across the waters wide. 

What is that wraith-like, pallid trail 
That in the distance seems to rest? 
Is it a far-off, phantom sail. 
Or billow's frothy crest? 

► This mortal breath is as the smoke. 

So quickly vanishing afar, — 
But lo! as if hope to evoke 

There shineth one pale star! 



THE BAYLOR SONG 55 

Dear mother of a mighty race 

Of sons and daughters known afar, 
Thou art enthroned in heart's high place 

As worshipped mothers ever are. 
Thine influence naught can efface. 

Not even time's petrific mace! 

Thou has no wealth of lands or marts; 

Proud in thy simple poverty, 
Thou hast withstood the barbed darts 

Of many a year's adversity. 
Thine is the wealth that love imparts, 

A multitude of loyal hearts! 

Yet once again with happy feet 
We tread thy halls and campus through; 

Again our love for thee repeat, 
Our youth's high-hearted dreams renew. 

Is any rapture half so sweet 
As long-loved college-mates to greet? 

Teach us of thy true heart's best lore. 

Our Baylor, Alma Mater dear! 
Make us more faithful than before, 

With every swiftly-passing year. 
As we thy fostering love implore. 

Oh, help thou us to serve thee more. 



56 CARLOTA'S MIRADOR 

The sun-light's amber splendor filled the air 

In Cuemavaca, in old Mexico, 
The while I wandered in a garden where 

Seemed gathered all the sweetest flowers that blow; 
Tall Pepper-trees with leaves like Maiden-hair 

Cast lace-like shadows on the emerald grass 
And myriad flower-petals floated fair 

With every breath of vagrant winds that passed. 

This was the place that proud Carlota loved 
More than her palaces or buildings grand; 
Twas here her swiftly-sped delight but proved 
As dreams that crumble at magici^i's wand. 
This Borda Garden, fairer then than now, — 
Yet heavenly-fair even now, to me it seems, — 
Keeps still the memory of that long ago 
And of a vanished empress ever dreams. 

The lake's unrippled waters seemed to sleep; 

The snowy swans their plumage softly preen; 
In yonder bosky grove the shadows deep 

Hide flowers with their beauty half unseen. 
The jasmine scenting all the tropic air, 

The mangoes with their rosy-golden sheen, 
The flowers that elsewhere never bloom so fair 

Speak softly of a young, beloved queen. 



And in the garden's farthest corner high, 57 

A-level with the massive stone built-wall, 
A little summer-house set lovingly 

That She might have a better view of all 
The winding walks, the flower banks, the trees, 

The fountain's silver spray, the lake's calm shore,— 
Rose with its benches cunning-shaped for ease. 

And this, they told me, was her Mirador. 

Outside the garden lay a deep ravine 

Beyond which rose the mountains, misty-blue, 
And in the distance clear that stretched between 

Magnolias and the rosy myrtles grew. 
On a far height an old cathedral stood, 

Toward which the lonely peons patiently 
Toiled up the steep to bear their offerings crude. 

How oft must she have viewed that tenderly! 

And does she, — now that she is old and lone. 

In Belgian mad-house shut so many years. 
In thinking of the happy years agone. 

With eyes made dim by burning, bitter tears, — 
E'er think of this spot once loved best of all? 

How hard that she can see it never more! 
Deep pity made mine own tears softly fall 

While I gazed from Carlota's Mirador. 



58 "POBRECITA" 

"Pobrecita!" in soft whisper 
Of the liquid Spanish tongue 
Soothed the woes of a wee lisper 
With her baby heart all wrung 
By the sight of strangers round her 
In the thronging market place, 
Till her mother swiftly found her, 
Gathered her in close embrace. 
"Pobrecita!" 

So I, older but still yearning 
For like loving sympathy. 
Find myself forever turning 
Toward a voice that speaks to me. 
In an alien land, a stranger. 
Vexed by many a doubt and fear, 
I forget all sense of danger 
At my Father's accents dear, 
"Pobrecita!" 



THE DUG-OUT 59 

While riding on the plains one day 

I lost my path and wandered 'round 
Till, on the prairie's trackless way, 

I came across a lonely momid. 

It strangely sudden seemed to rise 

Up from the endless waste of sand 
'Twas fashioned in such curious wise 

As by some necromancer's wand. 

A wooden door hung to the west, 

A shuttered window at one side. 
Was it a house that, tenantless, 

Did yet an occupant abide? 

All eagerly I gazed within, 

My eyes half-blinded by the gloom. 
And saw what once a home had been 

In that dark cellar of a room. 

A bed, with covers backward thrown. 

As when in haste one rises up, 
A table rude with crumbs o'erstrewn, 

A baby's little china cupl— 



^Q What else was there? Oh, just a few 

Old dishes with their chips and rust, 
A battered wooden chair or two, 
And over all the mantling dust. 

I know not why the simple thing 
Had power to subtly touch me so. 

But as I gazed I felt the sting 
Of salt, hot tears' unbidden flow. 

What tiny, dimpled hands had held 
That little cup once lovingly? 

And had the baby not rebelled 
His treasure left behind to see? 

Perhaps he had out-grown it then, 
The baby cup and baby days; 

Perchance afar with vicious men 
He trod the smirching, hell-bound ways. 

Or yet, mayhap, in quiet spot 

Where prairie flowers blossomed round. 

Where careless eyes could mark it not, 
There rose a lonely little mound. 

I cannot tell. But strangely there 

In memory oft rises up 
The picture of a dug-out bare 

And of a little china cup! 



WHITE HYACINTHS 61 

"If I had but two loaves of bread. I would sell one and buy 
white hyacinths to feed my somV— Eastern Proverb. 

I think the Orientalist was wrong; 
Such barter one need never make at all; 
The white flowers of the soul by rights belong 
To all whose hearts their beauty may enthrall. 
It is our life's brown bread that costs us dear; 
White hyacinths bloom round us fair and free, 
If we have but the poet-vision clear 
That needeth but to ope the eyes and seel 

I sat upon the steps at dusk that night 
To watch the stars bum palely, ray on ray. 
And thought how many blossoms heavenly-white 
Had bloomed beside my pathway yesterday. 
The first was in the tender Shepherd Psalm 
That sang itself to me the while I dressed. 
I steeped my spirit in its healing calm 
And felt anew its ecstasy of rest. 

A baby's laugh that floated happily 

Up to my window was the next soul-flower; 

A mocking bird's insouciant melody 

Atilt upon yon jasmine's white starred bower; 

A noble poem read and read again 

Until its magic soothed yet stirred my soul; 

The far-off echo of a loved refrain, — 

How fragrant-white the blossoms manifold! 



^2 The pause to look at young trees row on row. 

Soft in their tremulous tenderness of green. 
Where rapt, auroral flushes of peach-blow 
Thrill up the slope of yonder deep ravine; 
The arched cathedral aisle of meeting trees; 
The sunset sky with glory all aflame, — 
And were these not enough to give heart' s-ease 
And petty cravings put to shame? 

The half-hour in the twilight's tender calm 
When, with closed eyes and listening heart, I lay 
While one whose touch is magic brought the balm 
Of improvised, soul-searching chords that stay 
Forever in my inmost life apart! 
Such are the flowers that their blooms unfold 
Across the dusty high-way of my heart,— 
These the white hyacinths that feed my soul! 



THE OLD CATHEDRAL CHIMES 63 

What is that magic melody 

That round me softly floats? 
Is it angelic symphony 

Attuned to earthly notes? 

It steals upon the morning air 

When all beside is still, 
And calls me from my dream-land fair 

With wonder-waking thrill. 

It is the old cathedral chimes 

Their matin sounding sweet; 
Each dawn I hear their wordless rhymes 

Their mysteries repeat. 

So mournful-sweet, so softly-clear, 

They fail, then live again. 
I hush my very thoughts to hear 

That rapt, inmiortal strain! 



^4 The miserere's mourning toll. 

The penitential songs, 
The sad Peccavi of the soul 
Voice all earth's bitter wrongs. 

The wailing of a soul that dies 
While thick the shadows crawl, 

A glad Hosanna from the skies 
Are mingled with it all. 

The "Holy! Holy! Holy!" rolls 

Triimiphant in acclaim, 
As if all earth and sky extols 

That one divinest Name. 

The rapture and the wondering awe 
That shy Maid Mary felt 

Breathe through the chimes as if she saw 
The Angel yet, and knelt. 



•Now lettest me depart in peace!" ^5* 

I hear old Simeon cry. 
All earth's deep anguish finds heart's-ease 

By a cross uplifted high. 

The heavenly sweetness shrives my heart 

Of each low-clinging care; 
Its bahns a healing peace impart 

As comfort follows prayer. 

A thousand half-remembered things 

Float dream-like through my brain; 
I feel the brush of unseen wings 

With that last, dying strain! 



6& TO GEORGE ELIOT 

Ah, man's great brain allied with woman's heart! 

Ah, wisdom vast that puts our wits to shame! 

There is a mighty magic in thy art 

That casts a deathless glory round thy name. 

Creator, with a power almost divine, 

Thy living men and women throng the page; 

And yet strange contrasts in their life and thine 

Prove thee the Sphynx of this our modern age. 

A sinful woman, striving yet to teach 

The heavy train of woes that follow sin; 

An agonist an unseen goal to reach, 

But without hope the victor's crown to win; 

A soul so sensitive to every breath, 

Condemned at God's and man's high judgment bar, — 

How coulds't thou pierce the glooms of life or death 

And through the darkness see no Bethlehem star? 



THE BOON OF ENDLESS QUEST 67 

Were we only flesh, not spirit, 

Only clay untouched by fire, 
There were then no inner strivings. 

No vague impulse to aspire. 
As it is, our life is tortured 

By deep yearning and desire 
And each dull clod feels the motive 

Toward a nobler life and higher. 

Can we never hope to fathom 

What is meant by this behest? 
Can we never sound the plummet 

To the depths of our unrest? 
Shall we die with all our passion 

Unachieved and unconfessed? 
Even so, life has no blessing 

Like the boon of endless quest. 



68 THE FIRE-FLY 

0, elfin creature with thy phosphor light, 
A point of radiance in a starless gloom, — 

Thou mak'st the sombre boskage of the night 
With flower of flame, all palpitant, to bloom! 

Dost know the darksome ways thou threadest through 
Or is the trackless air a waste to thee? 

Oh, if we mortals, though but dimly, knew 
The Whence, the Whither, and the Way could see! 

But hush, my soul! The God that lit the fire 
Ephemeral in this poor insect's heart 

Hath given thee a light diviner, higher, 
A faith that more than knowledge can impart! 



"SAD WITH THE HAPPINESS WE PLANNED" 69 

William Vaughn Moody 

I used to marvel over-much at this 

To me so enigmatic, cryptic phrase; 

I could not fathom how't could be that bliss 

Should e'er the slightest thought of sadness raise! 

But that was in the days when life was young, 

When every accent was alilt with song. 

When joy was like a harp with tense cords strung 

That trembled music every breeze along. 

But now, since I am wiser grown, I feel 
That joy and pain so closely are akin. 
That when with bliss my very senses reel 
I know a nameless, hauntless pang within. 
Is it an anguish that joy cannot last? 
Or is it a mute prescience of woe? 
Or do I sense my imperfection vast 
In this so-perfect world of God's below? 

And then again, when sombre shadows steal 
Athwart the vivid sunshine of my days, 
When sorrow's depth of suffering I feel. 
There's yet a joy within my heart always! 
A joy that piercing griefs can never kill, 
A rest that staggering burdens cannot crush. 
A sense of God's dear presence with me still 
My puny passions and my wailing cries to hush. 



70 CATALINA 



In boat of glass I idly drift 
From Catalina's Moonstone Beach 

To where the marine gardens lift 
Their fronded palms and flowers, each 

Bathed in the mellow lights that sift 
Unto the ocean's farthest reach. 

The waveless waters stilly lie, 
Unscarred by any winds that sweep. 

As if some magic lullaby 
Had hushed them to enchanted sleep. 

And as I gazed, I feel that I 
Am bound by that same thraldom deep. 

Down through the waters, crystal-blue. 
Far, far below, fair gardens lie. 

Whose beauties pierce the senses through 
With subtlest thrill of ecstasy. 

'Tis like all fairy dreams come true 
Or man's lost paradise brought nigh! 

Tall, ferny trees so gently sway, 
Almost an hundred feet in height. 

With frond-like, lacy leaves that spray 
And shimmer in the tender light 

In colors that no artist may 
E'er hope to paint so softly-bright. 



Far, far below, the ocean shows 7/ 

Her myriad shyly tinted flowers 
More beautiful by far than those 

That bloom in any earthly bowers, 
In all the shades of tender rose 

Or violet cleansed by April showers. 

Like films of apple-green chiffon 

That gently float — and fall — and rise 
An almost breathless breeze upon. 

The delicatest leafage lies 
As robes Titania might don 

To glad my beauty-loving eyes! 

All in amongst the leafy boughs 

The gold and silver fishes play. 
Or in the sleeping waters drowse 

The mellow-amber hours away. 
What is the magic that allows 

Such perfect peace and charms alway? 

All mingled tints of rose and pearl 

The fluted shells lie on the sand: 
Around them waving tendrils curl 

As if by a magician's wand. 
Ah, is there elsewhere in the world 

So dream-enchanted Lotus-land? 



/^2 On yonder rock a sea-lion lies 

As if to guard this place so fair. 

Will Proteus in a fresh surprise 
Perchance appear beside him there? 

I look to see the Nereids rise 
Or Mermaids comb their yellow hair! 

I list for Triton's trumpet-roll 
Across the waters, faintly-clear. 

Ah, will this rapture e'er grow old 
Or shall I feel forever here 

The blissful pain that smites the soul 
At sight of scene so perfect-fair? 



THE BORDA GARDEN 73 

A RONDEL 

Ah, garden fair of far-off Mexico! 

Ah, dream-enchanted region of delight! 

Mine eyes sink wearied from their task, when lol 

Across my vision floats a vision bright 

Of sleeping lake, of lilies all arow. 

Of tall trees crowned with sunset's rosy light. 

Ah, garden fair of far-off Mexico! 

Ah, dream enchanted region of delight! 

Thy groves were witness in the long ago 

To proud Carlota's pageantry of might; 

Thine aisles re-echoed soon her bitter woe, 

Yet still thine undinmied beauty charms my sight. 

Ah, garden fair, of far-off Mexico! 

Ah, dream enchanted region of delight! 



74 THE INNER COURT 

I knew a house in long ago 
That rose from out the busy street 

Of an old town in Mexico, 
Where, all day long, the busy feet 

Passed and repassed it to and fro. 

In structure of the cold, grey stone 
It looked forbidding, grim and bleak. 

It seemed to stand there all alone, 
While no one entrance seemed to seek. 

In its dark halls no sun beams shone. 

Yet as I passed it on a day 
The heavy doors were open wide. 

I paused a moment on my way 
To cast a careless glance inside. 

And ah! what wonders therein lay! 

I saw a court or patio 

Shut up within that massive square. 
Where all the sweetest flowers that blow 

Seemed gathered in one garden fair 
'Neath the bright sky of Mexico. 

The red, red, roses riotous grew, 
The jasmine spilled its perfume sweet, 

The bougainvalea's purple blue 
Climbed up the topmost stone to greet. 

While golden sun-beams sifted through. 



I know a heart, too,*— Life and I— 75 

That seems so austere, proud and chill 

As to repel the passer-by. 
'Tis lonely, though around it still 

The jostling throng, the traffic-cry. 

Yet at the touch of sympathy 

Or sound of gentle, human word, 
That heart's closed doors wide open fly 

And as I gaze my soul is stirred 
At wealth of loves that in it lie! 

The flowers of faith and peace and love, 

The jasmine's holy star of hope, 
Bathed in bright sunlight from above 

Show all the heart's best blooms that ope 
The warmth of life within to prove. 

Perhaps you wonder, as did I, 

At inner grace of court and heart. 
There is a potent reason why 

That one such beauty could impart, — 
For each is open to the sky! 



76 REFLECTIONS 

I stand at the prow and gaze far down 

Into the tacit, lucid sea, 
Where not the slightest breeze is blown 

Upon that still transparency. 
At unimagined depths of blue 

The heavens' reflected hemisphere 
Shines like a globule trembling through 

With colors palpitantly clear. 

And all the careless clouds that float 

So idly in the summer sky 
Are mirrowed in those deeps remote 

And there as lightly, lightly lie. 
The heavens above, the heavens below 

Seem blended in that far blue line. 
The earth no longer is. I know 

My kinship with the worlds divine! 

E'en as I wait the winds are bom 

To lash to wrath the quiet sea; 
The clouds, forbidding and forlorn 

Now darken o'er me angrily. 
And yet I feel that all is right. 

For God is good and doth control,— 
And never earthly storms can blight 

The heaven that lies within the soul! 



THE HEAVEN OF DREAMS 77 

Oh, where is Heaven? Tell me where, 

Ye men that travel far! 
Ye have traversed earth's farthest reach 

From south to polar star; 

Ye have explored vast continents 

And girdled every sea,— 
Yea, even the air obeys thy will; 

Thy light ships whirl and flee, — 

The earth is thine, and yet in all 

Thy journeyings to and fro 
Hast heaven fomid? Oh, tell me, pray; 

I hunger so to know! 

Ye savants of the far-flung stars, 

That from high midnight towers 
Explore a myriad worlds beyond 

This atom-orb of ours. 

Ye chart the paths of stars that faint 

Illume the distant skies; 
Ye know the heavens, but have ye found 

Where Heaven really lies? 



78 And what is Heaven? I have heard 

In mystic canticle 
Of streets of gold, of jewels rare 
And radiant-wonderful; 

'Tis said that ever with bright harps 
The saints God's praise attest, 

While from earth's labor man may find 
Eternity of rest. 

But what of radiant youth that bums 
With life's unceasing will. 

That has no thought for rest but longs 
For buoyant eifort still? 

Perhaps the truths we've heard are but 
Faint symbols, if we knew; 

And is not Heaven just the place 

Where our best dreams come true? 



THE YELLOW JASMINE 79 

The yellow jasmine shakes on high 

Her laughing golden bells, 
While to the copse and wood-land nigh 

Sweet odorance up- wells. 

Like a graceful wood-nymph slim and fair, 

Clad in a cool green gown. 
With her unfilleted bright hair 

In radiance floating down. 

She weaves a spell of witchery 

Across my dreaming brain. 
And in the mists of memory 

I see Her face again! 



60 A PRAYER 

What can I give thee, Master mine, 

My love to manifest? 
I have no gems that bravely shine, 
No gifts that glitter fair and fine, — 
Only my heart, — lo, it is thine, 
For thy behest! 

How may I serve thee, Jesus, Lord? 

I am so helpless, frail, — 
Not mine to speak the far-flung word, 
Not mine to wield the warrior sword; 
If I my will with thine accord, 

Will that avail? 

How may I glorify thee, my King? 

I am all silent, dumb; 
I cannot preach nor speak nor sing; 
No worthy laurels may I bring. 
Myself prone at thy feet I fling,— 

Savior, I come! 



THE SCREECH-OWL 81 

Hushed is the calm and holy Southern night; 

Tis dark, save for the pallid, meagre light 

A few faint stars spill down. 

And all around 

A haunting sweetness from the golden bells 

Of jasmine vine up- wells 

To woo with thousand mingled memories 

And mute, unspoken prophecies 

The silence of my heart. 

A fluttering start 

Of wings sounds in the oak tree by the gate 

And as I idly wait. 

Thinking perchance to hear 

The insouciant, flute-like clear 

Voice of the mock-bird's midnight rhapsody, 

Instead there comes to me 

An eerie, awesome note, 

Wild tremulos that float 

Upon the startled stilness of the air. 

And near me there 

Well do I know the screech-owl's boding wail! 

I hear it faint and fail. 

Then rise again 

In wierd refrain 

Of melancholy presaging of doom. 

Through the sweet gloom 

Like oracle of fate 

With woe predestinate. 

It quavers palpitating, ominous and wild, 

But sad as the sobbing of a lonely child. 



S2 Unhappy bird. 

How hast thou stirred 

So deep this heart of mine? 

And do I then divine 

Aright the meaning of thy mournful tune 

That like some ancient, mystic rune 

Boding bane and withering with woe 

Doth fright me so? 

Thou art an awesome, fearful thing 

Although so slight 

My weak, unaided woman's hands could quite 

Crush out thy life. 

And yet all rife 

With menace indefinable, 

Dread threatenings unutterable 

And loathesome, helpless horror and affright 

Is this erstwhile so happy summer night! 

Thou seemest to fill the unquiet, darkening space 

With gruesome grace, 

And towerest to proportions vague and vast 

Until at last. 

Gigantic but invisible. 

Enveloping, intangible. 

Thou seemest the horrid specter of a dream 

From which thy sobbing scream 

But half avails to waken me. 

So wild thy wizardry! 



Art thou a disembodied woe S3 

Or spirit lone that flutters to and fro 

Shut out alike from heaven, earth and hell? 

Canst thou not tell 

What age-old wrongs or griefs are thine? 

Can power nor human nor divine 

Avail to ease the torments that up-start 

From thy so-anguished heart? 

Ah, whose lost, haunted soul 

Has permit to control 

Thy tiny frame? 

Could'st thou but name 

Thy passion, — mayhap worse! — 

Thy vulture-like remorse— 

Perhaps Death would grant rest 

To thy racked breast. 



g4 Whence is thy banishment? 

Why this thy punishment 
That, like the Wandering Jew, 
For ancient sin with pain forever new 
Thou'rt driven o'er earth's face 
With never resting-place 
Allowed to thee. 
Ah, greater tragedy! 
Thou'rt fated to impart 
To every listening heart 
A grief and horror like unto thine own. 
Each one who hears thee shudders at the tone 
Of dim, foreboding menace in thy notes, 
The prophecy of certain ill that floats 
From thy unquiet soul. 
And sadder than the toll 
Of passing-bell 
The sounds that well 
Low on the listening air, — 
Despair 

Both for thine own pang and the loss which thou 
Foretellest, as e'en now. 
To me the while I strain 
Unwilling ears to hear again 
The poignancy and presage of thy cry. 
But hark! nigher and yet more nigh 
With wailful sweetness 
And broken incompleteness 
Thy warning comes to me. 



Ah, bitter mystery! gg 

Whose is the fate that thou dost call aloud? 

Whose the loved form thy prophecies enshroud? 

Can it be true that death doth stalk so near! 

An icy fear 

Benumbs my faltering heart. 

As tears upstart 

I murmur brokenly 

"What if it should be I?" 

How should I bear the physical pain of death, 

The stopping of my breath? 

How bear the loneliness of one mere atom hurled 

Into the awful space of world on world? 

What if my soul be summoned unaware. 

Still wrapped in earth's ambitions, to appear 

Alone 

Before the face of Him that sittest on the throne? 

Again that menacing cry! 

Lord, let it not be I! 



S6 But with a deeper fear my heart's transfixed. 

For, if the fates be fixed, 
The oracle be sure and no escape there be. 
If from our home must one too certainly 
Face death alone, 

How may I pray that I be not that one? 
What if God hear my prayer 
Myself to spare. 

But smite the best-beloved from my side? 
Ah, woe betide! 
The truth how true. 
Which I forgot, if e'er I really knew, — 
All personal pangs above. 
The suffering borne by those we love 
Is our most bitter pain! 
So, I am fain 
To appropriate 
Unto myself the fate. 

The stroke of that grim, over-hanging sword. 
And with bowed heart, I whisper, "Lord, 
If it indeed must be. 
If no escape have we. 
If one from out our group must surely die, 
Oh, grant it may be only I!" 



To bear our sorrows sunnily, g"^ 

Not merely with a stoic calm,— 
'Tis thus we wrest from misery 

The victor's crown and palm. 



88 MITLA BY MOONLIGHT 

In chill and silver moonbeams' sheen 
That casts o'er all an austere grace, 

The immemorial ruins seen 
Still show each melancholy trace 

Of Time's defacing chisel keen 
In marks that nothing can efface. 

The massive column's majesty, 
The crumbling walls whose pictured skill 

In fadeless colors yet doth lie, 
The sacrificial altar still 

So eloquent of cruelty, — 
With visions vast my fancy fill. 

Who was the architect that planned 
In ages past this mighty fane? 

At what proud priest's or king's command 
Did myriad toiling peons strain 

To build this Mitla temple grand? 
And recked he not the cost, the pain? 

Can no one tell when this was reared,— 
What countless centuries agone? 

Was it in days of Pharaoh feared, 
Or in the pride of Solomon? 

Perhaps it was when Jesus neared 
His hour of agony alone! 



How many countless moons have shed S9 

Their delicate and rare device 
Upon the awful heaps of dead 

Piled here in human sacrifice? 
How strange that men should e'er be led 

To worship in such cruel wise! 

The ever-changing, changeless moon 

That shone here centuries ago 
Makes still a mist-enchanted noon 

Tonight in Southern Mexico, — 
By whose soft light the Aztec rune 

Mocks yet our eager wish to know. 

Shall Mitla in the far-off years,— 
Perhaps ten thousand moons from now, — 

Still witness human hopes and fears, 
Still list to lovers' ardent vow? 

And shall we then, in distant spheres. 
Know all the things that vex us now? 



90 ABSENCE 

Oh, friend of mine, though years should intervene 

And tides of life should separate us far, 
Though the wide continents should stretch between 

Or seas divide, — 'twould constitute no bar! 
But when we meet 'tis loneliness most keen! 

The distance not so great to yonder star 
As that which parts us when we closest seem. 

I miss you most when we together are! 

No alien face seems half so strange to me 
As yours, with look unchanged; the bitterest part 

Of dreaming is to wake from dreams to see 
With backward-yearning look a hope depart! 

Not death itself could sunder us if we 
But knew that nearness that like aims impart, 

While I, with hand in yours, feel bitterly 

'Tis spirit's absence that most wrings the heart! 



ONLY 91 

Just a piece of marble 
Chipped and scarred and old. 
Carved in vanished ages 
By hands so soon grown cold, 
Tell me, where's the magic 
Such glory to impart? 
Just a piece of marble 
Carved from a sculptor's heart! 

Just a few dim colors 
On old canvas spread. 
Yet a painter's vision 
Lives, though he is dead! 
As we stand before it. 
Marvelous it seems. 
Just a few faint colors 
Mixed with an artist's dreams! 

Just words strung together, — 
Bursts of lyric song, — 
Yet what wondrous fancies 
Quick the rapt soul throng! 
Almost heard are echoes 
Of angel symphony. 
Just words strung together — 
Immortality! 



92 IN A FIELD OF BUFFALO CLOVER 

I wandered in a valley virginal 

Around which towered trees that touched the blue. 
My soul was ravished by ambrosial 

Perfume that thrilled my senses through and through; 
I seemed to see a beauty magical 

That haunted me. In vain I sought the clue 
To that which seemed but a mystical, 

Faint picture of a life that once I knew. 

I seemed to see a trembling, phantom lake 

All palpitant, whose depths of amethyst 
Were like to fairy globules fit to break 

At touch of Ughtest, vagrant wind that kissed 
Their foam-flecked crests. The sun-light seemed to wake 

To rain-bowed life the shimmering low-hung mists, 
And elfin-fleets their snowy sails did shake 

To steer their courses whereso'er they list. 

And yet again, it seemed the summer sky 

Lay at my feet, outstretching far and free! 
That limpid blueness seemed all heaven brought nigh 

Atremble in its rapt liquescency. 
The ravelled fleeces of faint clouds trailed by 

Across the blue, or so it seemed to me. 
And as I gazed long-while, I felt that I 

More near to God and His fair worlds be! 



DYNAMICS 93 



My spirit answers to the sense of power. 

That thrills in all things, — in the awful sweep 

Of world on world, as in the whirl- wind's hour; 

In changing seas, deep answering unto deep; 

In vast machinery's measured, rythmic whirr; 

In floatings of the pale-gold mists of morn; 

In the wild lightning's dart 'tis minister 

As in the grey-celled brain where thought is bom. 
Lo! in the unfolding of yon still, small flower 
Or in a baby's up-curled hand, what power! 



94 THE COTTON-WOOD TREE 

The lyric leafage of the cotton-wood tree 
Outside my window recollections bring 
Of unforgotten, unforgettable things 
More sweet because of their simplicity, — 
The silver rain-drops' subtile harmony; 
From cavalcades of corn low whisperings; 
The sudden-whirring rush of skyward wings 
In flight of free, unfettered rhapsody; 
The rustle of soft, silken skirts that pass; 
Low, echoing, half-heard laughter far away; 
The flutter of blown leaves upon the grass; 
The wind-song of a late November day, — 
I hear these and forget that I, alas. 
Stay pent within the city's dusty way. 



THE UMITED EXPRESS 95 

Like a dream it glimmers by. 

The Limited Express, 
Surcharged with mystery. 

With questions answerless. 

Waves backward through the night 

A smoke-wrought, velvet plume 
While jeweled, glancing lights 

The graying fields relume. 

The red-lit windows frame 

Faint faces, all unknown. 
That in the shadows flame 

An instant and are gone: 

Ah, whence and whither fare 

These friends I may now know? 
What errands of despau:. 

What quests of love, what woe. 

What joy too great to last, 

What mission sadly sweet 
Doth send them speeding past,— 

These friends I'll never meet? 

What they might mean to me 

My heart would fain divine, 
Yet I shall never see 

These unknown friends of mine! 



96 I know not by what ways of light 

My soul was meant to come, 
Nor what the hellish depths of night 
My feet have faltered from! 



AS A LEAF 97 

Through the dim, sunset-haunted woods I walked, 

Alone with happy dreams. 
The air was sweet with summer spiceries 

While golden-rod's bright gleams 
In multitudinous oriflames lit up 

Each little open space 
Where the solemn pine-trees, awe-struck, drew apart 

To see the heaven's face. 

The deep mid-summer calm was everywhere, 

With its sweet sounds and scents; 
Each summer attribute seemed vitalized 

With gracious permanence. 
I thought the happy time would last, — forgot 

'Twas pitiably brief 
Till there before me on the grass I saw 

One blood-red, fallen leaf! 

A sudden, chilling touch like frost-wind's breath 

Crept o'er my saddened heart; 
I felt how fleet, ephemeral are life's joys. 

How swift the days depart! 
We all do fade as leaves, ah, yes! and yet 

How manifold and strange 
The leaves, — how widely varied are the ways 

In which they fall and change! 

Some flutter, pallid, at the call of fate, 

Some, like the sun-set heaven; 
Some cling all sere and lonely to the bough, 

Some in gay ranks are driven. 
Lord, at the last, may it be mine to go 

While still my world is fair, 
With light and color, though it be of death. 

Like that one red leaf there! 



98 THE PASSING OF THE PRAIRIE 

Gone are our prairies known of old! — 

Gone, gone those plains, 

Those vast, empyrial, sunset-haunted sweeps 

Of distance measureless. 

Those soundless, tideless seas of gray-waved grass 

Whose undulations never break on any beach 

Or near or far. 

Gone are those winter whitenesses, wide wastes of snow 

Soft-patterned by the wind in flakes and wreaths 

Of fairy-filigree all exquisite. 

Fore-doomed to melt unseen by eye of man, 

Unscarred by any trace 

Save where the hungry cattle huddle up for warmth 

Or a lone coyote skulks across the snow. 

Gone are those Irised pampas of the spring, 

Those level and illimitable fields of flowers 

Whose myriad forms and colors follow each 

In bright, bewildering sequences of bloom 

As if the prodigal year 

Were crowding all her sweets in one brief ecstasy. 

Gone those unmeasured meadows 

Where the riot of lupin's blue and white 

Reflect the far sky with its trailing, fleecy clouds! 



Across those plains the buffaloes once roamed pp 

And untamed, wind-swift horses raced and fled, 

While Indians waged their unrecorded, passionate 

Pursuits of love and war. 

Now all is changed, — all, all! 

Gone are the camp-fires and the wigwams, gone. 

Of wild Comanches, the fierce Arabs of the prairies, 

Of Caranchuas, the Apaches and the Wacoes 

And all the kindred nomad bands of hunters. 

Their ancient trails are now obliterated quite. 

No more is heard their wild, unearthly war-cry 

Nor their wailing song of death. 

No more is seen their scalp-dance 

Nor their painted gauds of war. 

They left no trace behind them but a few lone mounds. 

Some scattered arrow-heads that "pale-face" children 

wonder at. 
And is that eager life. 

That savage lust for strife, that haughty strength, 
That hate undying and that faithful love 
Now altogether nothing and forgot? 
This was the Indians' land. 
Their primal home. 

They loved it with a fierce, unreasoning rapture 
And yet we 

Desired and wrestled it from them. 
We called them savages; 
What ones we did not slay we sent afar 
Into a mournful banishment 
To eat their hearts out in their home-sick grief 
Or fall before the evils of the town. 
While we grow rich upon the land we stole 
And smugly teach our children patriotism in the schools! 
Ah, yes, the march of civilization must go on, — 
But could we not have dwelt at peace 
With these brown brothers. 
Sons of God as well as we? 



20 But they are gone— their land knows them no more. 
Where once they roamed rise schools and factories 
To teach of arts they never dreamed of. 
Where the thundering tread 
Of buffalo once shook the earth 
The fierce steam-dragon with his eye of fire 
Now tears his way. 
Where once the gracile form 
Of antelope, the sinuous cougar and the wild. 
Complaining coyote roamed at will 
The click of reapers and the din of mills is heard. 
The bear-grass and the cactus, the wild sage 
Have been upturned for rows 
On limitless rows of cotton 
And vast standing ranks of corn. 
Mesquite trees with their lace-like, tender leaves 
And creamy, perfumed plumes 
That grew at vagrant wish upon the plains 
Have given place 

To orchards orderly and even and well-kept. 
The racing motor-cars now wheel and flee 
Where once the prairie schooners 
Sought their trackless way across the plains. 
Where once the cow-boy on his lonely watch 
Pillowed his head upon his saddle and gazed up 
Into the wide and starry silences 
Now gleam the unwinking lights of city streets. 
The dug-out has become the lordly home. 



Soon, too, shall go the round-up and the fetes, 201 

The orgies of the jocund branding-time. 

Soon shall the dogy and the maverick be gone 

As now the Indian and the buffalo! 

The broncho shall be trained to pull the plow; 

The valiant cow-boy with his world all changed 

Must sadly fold his lariat and depart. 

The rattle-snake that erst was wont to lie 

Coiled in the sun, 

In sullen stillness brooding o'er his immemorial wrongs 

Till sharp and suddenly 

He waking, raised his head to hiss and strike. 

Must go! 

The sovreign eagle floating in the dim. 

Blue distance knows his kingdom is divided now, 

His reign is o'er. 

All, all is changed! 



2Q2 Ah, true, we ill could spare these fertile farms. 
These pleasant homes. 
World's progress must go on, 
No matter what the cost. 
Yet now that we are narrowed down 
To little, tidy grass-plots and tilled fields 
Shall not our natures be contracted, too? 
Do not our souls need their unfenced ranges, wild and 

free? 
How shall we know again 

Such wide, illimitable space to dream and grow? 
Where shall we see again such wind-swept distances. 
Such epic, star-sown nights. 
Such lyric dawns? 



BUTTERFLIES IN SEPTEMBER 103 

Idly afloat in the sunshine, 

Glittering golden and brown, 
White like the petals of hawthome 

Wavering dreamily down, 
Yellow like prim-roses winged. 

Tawny like tiger-skins bright. 
Flaming with hues of the sunset, 

Silent as motes in the light, — 

Butterflies everywhere flying 

Seem but the blossoms a-wing. 
Each in ineffable beauty, — 

Imagineless, delicate thing! — 
Looks like the soul of a flower 

Yesterday withered and dead. 
Haply in Arcady faded. 

How many yesterdays fled! 

Ah, must the frost-winds despoil then 

Beauty too lovely to last? 
Pallidly blown on the breezes 

Autumn leaves fluttering past 
Sorrowful hint of the future, — 

Flowers all dead in the way. 
Bird-songs all silenced in woodlands. 

Fragile wings folded for aye. 

for some land where the winter 

Comes not with chill and with pain. 
Where the bright beauty of summer 

Never need vanish again! 
Life with its manifold lessons 

Teaches, however, this thing, — 
Hearts that know never the winter 

Miss all the rapture of spring! 



NOV 25 1912 



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